


I Want (To Hate) You

by CarpeDiemForLife



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #DrunkenKissesChallenge, (He definitely does), (or does he?), Angst, Drunken Kissing, Episode: s02e12 Tome-wan, Feels, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Stormy Weather, Will Loves Hannibal, Will's Louisiana accent is a turn-on for Hannibal, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeDiemForLife/pseuds/CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will forgets his jacket at Hannibal's office, Hannibal drives all the way to Wolf Trap to return it to him. Upon arriving, however, he is surprised to find Will in an exceedingly intoxicated state. The only question is, does this drunken Will Graham want to kill Hannibal... or kiss him?</p><p>Set during 2x12 Tome-Wan, after the mutilation of Mason Verger and before the final scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want (To Hate) You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the #DrunkenKissesChallenge. My first published work for 'Hannibal,' whoo whoo! I must say, I really enjoyed writing this. Many thanks to the Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive team for conceiving and moderating these fandom fests!
> 
> A big thanks also to starkaryen, who was kind enough to beta this for me <3

It was 10:00 on a Friday evening, and Hannibal Lecter was done for the week. As always, he had stayed in the office for a good hour or so after Will’s departure, finishing the last of the bookkeeping and other business-related items so that his weekend could proceed unimpeded by work. Briefcase in hand, Hannibal flicked off the lights and stepped into his reception area, closing the door behind him.

It was then that he noticed a familiar brown jacket sprawled across one of the armchairs.

Easily enough he recalled that Will hadn’t been wearing said jacket during his appointment. He must have left it on the chair when he’d come into the office, and then forgotten to grab it again on his way out.

Hannibal scooped the jacket up and brought it to his nose. Sure enough, the smell of dogs, dogs, and more dogs assaulted his senses, and he barely restrained a cough. Despite this, the offending odor somehow made him smile, a warm feeling fluttering to life inside his chest.

Jacket slung over one arm, Hannibal strode towards the door with new purpose, turning off the last remaining light as he did.

 

*

 

It was 11:07 on a Friday evening, and Hannibal Lecter was at the house of one Will Graham, having driven slightly faster than was legal, despite the bad weather. Car and briefcase remained in the driveway as Hannibal approached the front door. The porch steps creaked beneath him, and rain beat in a steady rhythm against the grass, the gravel, the car. His excuse for the unannounced visit was held securely in his left hand.

First he shook off as much of the rainwater as he could, then he raised his right hand and knocked. The howls of two or three dogs split the air. These, Hannibal guessed, must be the newest comers to the pack, as Will would have trained all the older dogs not to behave with such unnecessary volume.

He awaited the sound of padding feet, or of Will admonishing the dogs in question. He received neither. Instead, a voice called out from within,

“Who’s... Who is it? Ah hell, come on in, s’open.”

Hannibal’s back went rigid with alarm. The voice was Will’s, but not as he’d ever heard it before. There was an unmistakable slur to his speech, its origin obvious, and he was struck by worry at the amount of alcohol Will would have needed to imbibe for it to have such a drastic effect on a man with such high tolerance.

“Unless you’re here to kill me, ha,” continued Will, his invitation slow and lazy and exactly the opposite of the concern one _ought_ to feel when a killer on their doorstep was, in fact, completely plausible. “Hell! _Esp-specially_ if you’re here to... to kill me. Why not? I’m in the mood for... for just about anything tonight, I reckon.”

Not only was Will slurring his words, but the inebriation had also brought out a hint of his native Louisiana drawl, and it was _doing_ things to Hannibal that he never would’ve expected in response to a lower class accent.

Holding himself upright, Hannibal cleared his throat and let himself in. The door clattered shut behind him. He stood still for a moment, coat dripping onto the wood floor. The inside of the house was dark, no lights on anywhere. Once his eyes adjusted, making use of the moonlight streaming through the windows, they immediately locked onto Will.

The FBI profiler was nothing more than a dark shape slumped in an armchair that mere days ago had been the throne for a mutilated Mason Verger. Light glinted off of brown-tinted glass, revealing to Hannibal the multitude of empty beer bottles strewn all over the floor. Thunder rumbled somewhere miles away. He watched as Will lolled his head up unconcernedly, turning to take in the appearance of his guest.

When he recognized Hannibal’s figure, he barked a laugh.

“So? Are you?”

Hannibal tilted his head, running a hand over his damp hair to smooth it down. “Am I what, Will?”

“Here to kill me?”

He walked forward, carefully avoiding objects that would shatter under his foot and likely impale Will the following morning. He laid Will’s jacket over the arm of the couch.

“You left your jacket at my office. I am only here to return it.”

“Shame. I could do with a nice murder right about now.” This followed by a hand swinging upward, depositing the lip of a beer bottle to Will’s mouth. He took a swig. Then he glanced over at Hannibal again, eyes squinted.

“You’re wet,” he said.

“It’s raining,” was Hannibal’s answer. He stepped closer to the armchair, not yet close enough to touch, but close enough to bring the details of Will’s countenance into sharper focus. “You are very drunk, Will. Perhaps you should slow down.”

Will laughed again, the sound sharp, and bitter, and frayed. There came a whimper from the pile of dogs by the opposite wall. Even after the laugh died away, a smirk remained plastered on his face, one side of his mouth higher than the other in an expression of arrogance and self-assurance. Again, something fluttered joyfully inside Hannibal. Inhibitions destroyed by the alcohol, the Will that sat before him was the very image of the sculpture Hannibal had been seeking all this time as he set his chisel to stone. This Will was raw, and he was beautiful.

“If you’re so concerned about my drinking habits, _doctor_ ,” he said, the word both snide and sultry, though Hannibal wasn’t sure how he managed this, “then _perhaps_ you shouldn’t give me so many reasons to drink.” So saying, he chugged down the remaining liquid in his bottle.

This gave Hannibal pause. Brow creased, he stepped closer again.

“You felt compelled to drink because of me? May I ask why?”

The snap of a head in his direction was Hannibal’s only warning before Will had propelled himself out of his chair, grabbed Hannibal by the coat, and slammed him against the front window, all in a move rather too quick and coordinated for a Will _this_ drunk, in Hannibal’s considered opinion. He managed not to wince, despite the tremors down his spine at the impact. He met Will’s gaze calmly.

The same could not be said of Will. His eyes were fevered and he was near to panting, chest heaving up and down, fists curling tighter and tighter into Hannibal’s damp coat.

A sense of foreboding struck Hannibal then. Not due to the physical situation in which he found himself; he had no doubt of his victory should it come down to a ‘kill or be killed,’ not with Will so incapacitated.

No. It wasn’t that. It was another fear entirely. The fear that had held onto him for months now, refusing to let go no matter how desperately his heart wanted to shake it.

The fear that Will was not truly his, and belonged to Jack Crawford instead.

For all that the evidence suggested Will had taken the life of Freddie Lounds, and for all that Will had saved him from certain death at Muskrat Farm, Will still had never gone so far as to kill anyone in front of Hannibal. In fact, he had made it quite clear that he would _not_ kill Mason Verger, and instead wished Hannibal to. Very much the behavior of one intent on catching Hannibal in the act.

So the fear had clung to him.

And now, with the state he found Will in, and the rage he could see there in Will’s eyes, he worried he might be on the brink of discovering that Will’s loyalties were exactly where he had most feared them to be.

“ _Why_ , Dr. Lecter?” Will hissed, shoving his face close to Hannibal’s. The doctor did his best not to wrinkle his nose at the unpleasant aroma. “You have the fucking _nerve_ to ask _why_?” He pulled Hannibal forward, only to slam him back against the window a second time. The rain on Hannibal’s coat squeaked against the glass. “You—”

Will's voice cracked. He snarled, as though angered by his own weakness, and slammed Hannibal back once more. Entranced by the divine fury in the smoldering blue eyes before him, Hannibal felt his body begin to stir.

“You murdered my daughter. You murdered my only friend. You took... _everything_ from me. My life, my sanity, and I... I should...”

Will’s grip on Hannibal loosened for just a moment, his chin wobbling, eyes suddenly wet with tears. Then his nose twitched with anger, and he snarled again. The sound morphed halfway through into a wordless shout and he yanked Hannibal forward, slamming him back again with renewed force. The windowpanes rattled a threat. Rain beat against them from the outside.

“I should hate you,” Will growled, teeth bared like a wolf. “I should want you _dead_. I should have killed you, I should have let you die, let Mason feed you to his pigs. I should have..." His voice rose to a scream. “ _Why_?”

Still Hannibal said nothing. Waiting. Always waiting, for Will. Lightning flashed somewhere behind him, throwing Will’s face into sharp relief for a split second. His pulse pounded in his veins as he saw a silver line streak down Will’s cheek. The urge to lean forward and lick the tear away sat heavy inside his chest.

“Why can’t I kill you, goddammit! Why can’t I hate you? Why... Why do I want...”

Hannibal’s breath stopped in its tracks, called to a halt by the watery eyes now staring deeply into his own, as though searching their depths for some hidden knowledge. Thunder cracked.

Then Will’s mouth was on his and breath ceased to exist as a concept.

Will’s kiss was every bit as angry and animalistic as his words, his teeth biting and tearing at Hannibal’s lips. Before Hannibal could even fully process this turn of events, one of his hands had lifted to grip the back of Will’s head, his thumb resting against Will’s cheek. He parted his lips, sucking Will’s probing tongue into his mouth. Even with the tang of beer, just experiencing the taste of Will was enough to elicit a moan. His free hand loped itself around Will’s waist, pulling the smaller man flush against him, the movement pressing their erections together. Will broke the kiss so he could groan into Hannibal’s ear, as the rain pitter-pattered on the glass behind them. Both men were panting now.

Hannibal breathed deeply. But before the oxygen had time to reach his brain, Will was once again attacking his lips, and Hannibal could do nothing but respond in kind. He’d never been so hungry in all his life. He wanted to touch, to taste, to take everything this beautiful boy had to offer him, gifts he’d long desired but never truly expected to receive.

 _Gifts he is only offering to you now because he is inebriated_ , his re-oxygenated brain reminded him.

Lightning illuminated the room once again. He broke the kiss.

“Will,” he huffed. The other man dove back in, heedless to the sound of his name, but Hannibal stopped him with a firm hand on the chest. This was enough to get Will to pause and pay attention. Thunder rumbled. The rain fell harder.

“Will,” he repeated, somewhat less breathily. “You are intoxicated. We cannot—”

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Will. “We’re not fucking kids, just—”

“ _No_ , Will.” The hard tone of his voice brooked no disagreement. “No.”

“Fine.” Will grinned, no longer a wolf, but a fox. “If this is a matter of principle, just get as shit-faced as me. Then no one can say you took advantage.” He leaned in close, hovering his lips half an inch from Hannibal’s. “I’ll wait for you to catch up.”

It was a struggle to overcome the want, the _need_ , flooding through every pore of him. But Hannibal was nothing if not practiced in the art of self-control. Taking gentle hold of Will’s wrists, he pushed him backward so there was a foot of room between them.

“No,” he said, gentler this time. “When you come to me, I want you to come of your own free will. Not in this way.”

Confusion came first, then wrinkles of displeasure, as Will realized he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Then the smirk returned. He shoved his way forward, easily breaking the loose hold on his wrists before Hannibal could register the movement. He pressed their bodies together, grinding his erection against Hannibal’s. Hannibal’s chest grew tight with the effort of not groaning. Then Will’s lips were by his ear, warm breath whispering,

“Just let me come right now. It’s what I want. Not any of those things I _should_ want. I _can’t_ want them, because I want _you_ , because despite everything you’ve done, I... I...” He took a shaky breath, and it was only this that reminded Hannibal that he too needed to breathe.

“You did this to me,” Will continued to whisper, more hoarse now. The two men were flush against one another. “It was supposed to be a con, don’t you understand, goddammit? I was supposed to put you behind bars. I wasn’t supposed to _want_. But I do. I want. Because you won. I want you alive, I want you free, I want... you.” His lips were so close to Hannibal’s ear that he could _feel_ the moisture when Will licked them, wetting them.

He swallowed. “You are far too drunk to know what you want, Will,” he said, noting how his voice sounded as rough as though it had not been used for weeks.

Evidently not discouraged by Hannibal’s response—had he forgotten to actually speak the words out loud?—Will nuzzled his ear and then bit the lobe, gently tugging at the soft flesh. His own want was surging up within him again, and if Will didn’t stop soon, he wouldn’t have the strength to do it himself.

“ _William_.”

Will froze. The only sound was the rain outside and the soft hush of dog fur against fleece. Even before Will moved, Hannibal felt the change in the atmosphere between them. Then he did move, stepping away from the heat of Hannibal’s body and meeting his gaze.

“You... called me William,” he said. Lightning speared through the window, highlighting the utter lack of emotion displayed on Will’s face.

“Yes,” said Hannibal simply.

“Only my father ever called me that.”

“I apologize if the name causes you discomfort. I will not use it again—”

“No, it’s...” Will looked off to the right, down at the floor. “...not a bad thing. Sometimes it’s good for us to be reminded of where we came from. Don’t you think so, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal breathed in, still working to slow his beating heart. “I think that it is very late and I should go. And that _you_ should try and get some sleep.”

A boom of thunder. Will blinked, woken from some spell of his own casting. He looked up and stared at Hannibal for a moment. Then his forehead creased.

“You have a long drive home,” he said.

Hannibal inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I do.”

Will nodded slowly. His gaze slid away again, as it had been so wont to do at the start of their acquaintance, before he had seen the truth of Hannibal and before he’d let Hannibal see the truth of _him_. “I think you’re right,” he said. “You should go.”

Hannibal nodded. Still, he did not move. His feet remained planted right where they were. Every atom of his body cried out for Will, ached for him. More than anything he wanted Will to storm the distance between them and reclaim Hannibal’s mouth, and then more.

And yet he knew also that he did _not_ want this. To want one outcome and its seeming opposite at the exact same time was no painless thing.

“Goodnight, Will,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth. Thankfully his feet followed suit, and soon he was at the door, one hand on the knob.

“Hannibal.”

Lightning.

He stopped dead. _Hannibal. Hannibal Hannibal Hannibal._ His name, spoken to him so often from others’ lips, but never before from these. The lips of his beloved, the lips that only minutes before had been pressed against his own, and whispering into his ear. _Hannibal_. He closed his eyes, savoring the sound, locking the memory safely away into its very own room in his mind palace, never to be lost or forgotten. _Hannibal_.

Opening his eyes, he turned to Will. The man stared back at him from the other end of the room, his purposeful gaze clear evidence that he was perfectly aware of what he had done.

“I know what I want,” he said.

Thunder.

It was 11:16 on a Friday evening, and Hannibal Lecter was drunk on something far stronger than alcohol when he opened the door and left Will Graham’s house.

 

*

 

It was 11:16 on a Friday evening, and Will Graham was dead sober. His eyes lowered to the floor as the door clanged shut. He waited to move until he heard the rumble of an engine and the roll of tires over gravel, then the hum of a car driving far, far away.

One by one he picked up the scattered beer bottles, all but one of which had been emptied down the sink earlier that night. He carried them to the sink again now and dumped them there, to be dealt with later. First he wanted mouthwash, to rid himself of the awful taste of the beer he’d gargled so as to make his breath convincing.

He made it no more than a step towards the bathroom before the memory of soft lips and stubbled cheeks stopped him cold. There was a brand on his cheek where Hannibal had touched him, and his mouth was still tingling. He’d never kissed a man before, and frankly, he hadn’t expected to like it.

But he had. God help him, he really had. Even the thought of rinsing out his mouth had lost its appeal, because although the beer residue would be washed away, so too would all the taste of Hannibal that lingered.

His heart began to beat faster.

He recalled the sight of Hannibal pressed up against his window, caged in by Will’s body as lightning cast a glow around his lean, powerful figure. The sharp, cutting lines of his cheekbones, the fallen strands of damp hair across his forehead. Those eyes, dark and knowing, and far too tender.

Just thinking about it... Will wanted. He wanted Hannibal. He wanted him dead, and he wanted him alive. He wanted him behind bars, and he wanted him free.

He wanted him.

The entire night had been a ruse of his own design, meant to once and for all convince Hannibal of his loyalty. The premise was simple. Leave the coat for Hannibal to find. Upon his arrival, appear to be heavily intoxicated. Then, in his ‘uninhibited’ state, profess his unwilling, but genuine, desire for Hannibal and his unintended, but real, devotion so that the man could have no further doubts of his allegiance. He wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the way Hannibal looked at him. He knew Hannibal’s sexual proclivities were unaffected by such trivialities as gender. Just as he knew that Hannibal wanted to be Will’s only friend, his only lifeline, the single person in Will’s world. The logical leap wasn’t hard to make.

What _had_ been hard was convincing himself to go through with it. The mere thought of feigning sexual desire for another man was so far-fetched as to seem ludicrous, potentially more risky than it was worth. He’d been relying on his apparent drunkenness to explain any particular lack of physical response that Hannibal might have noticed.

Clearly he needn’t have worried.

And that, in itself, was worrying.

For though tonight had been intended to trick Hannibal with lies, Will feared that, instead, he had tricked _himself_ with the truth.

 

*

 

It was 12:53 on an early Saturday morning, and Hannibal Lecter was in his study. Seated behind a mahogany desk, he set charcoal to paper and began to sketch. A plate of armor here, a brush of hair there. Achilles, lamenting the death of his lover on the battlefield of Troy. As pure a love as man had ever known.

Hannibal smoothed his finger over a dark line.

 _“Sometimes it’s good for us to be reminded of where we came from,”_ Will had said. And he hadn’t been wrong. Only by studying the shards of the teacup could one have any hope of fitting the pieces back together.

Among the throng of Greeks, Hannibal made a place for Briseis, allowing her the chance to mourn Patroclus as well, sharing in the grief of Achilles, the two men who had given her a new home when the old was taken from her. In mythology, her hair was golden. In his drawing, it was dark.

He turned his instrument back to Patroclus. The delicate curl of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. Then to Achilles, to perfect the forms of his loving embrace. Back to Briseis, to capture the sorrow in her eyes.

Hannibal smiled softly. He wished he could tell them that there was no need for sadness; they would all three be reunited again, soon enough.

And for the first time in a long time, as Hannibal lay in bed some hours later, the memory of Will’s taste still on his tongue, he imagined the teacup gathering itself up and he let his heart believe it.


End file.
